Winchesters Never Give Up
by jmr27
Summary: While Sam is a freshman at Stanford, an elderly woman shows up at his dorm claiming to be his grandmother. We've met Henry Winchester, but what happened to his wife, Millie? After John left Lawrence, she never stopped looking for her boys. Now, Millie Winchester is on a mission to reconnect with each one of them. Pre-series.
1. Chapter 1

**Stanford, 2002**

The residence hall was a beehive of activity. It was late in the afternoon, most classes were over for the day, and the freshmen were free to play. The wonder of being away from home, on their own, and surrounded by others in the same euphoric state, was recipe for high jinks.

A red remote-control car sailed down the steps toward a set of plastic bowling pins set up on the sidewalk. The crowd of boys raised their arms and cheered, calling out bets as the car dived. Their cheers turned to yelps as an elderly woman turned into the walk, leaning on her cane with each careful step.

"Stop! Abort! Get out of the way!"

The woman lifted her chin, raised her eyebrows, and swatted the car out of the air with her cane before it could collide with her face. It landed in the grass, littering plastic parts and growling as the wheels kept spinning.

Millie stifled her grin at the dismay on the faces before her, and did not break her stride as they boys rushed to the fallen car's side. "Aw, man! Look what she did!"

"Dude, you are just lucky it didn't hit her!"

"Sorry about that, ma'am." One boy stopped to apologize hastily. Millie looked carefully at his face, but it was not the right one. She shrugged, left the boys to their bowling, and carried on.

Inside, a chant was rising in the main lounge. "Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!" One boy stood on a table, surrounded by adoring fans waiting for him to vomit. He was gulping milk straight from the gallon, but suddenly paused and clutched his stomach. The cheers died and one voice sang out, "He's gonna blow!"

Millie hastily moved out of the line between the lounge door and the bathroom and made her way up the stairs.

She rounded the landing to see several young men in nothing but their towels. One shook his wet head like a dog, and another brushed his teeth as he walked. A third made a quick motion with his arm: reach, twist, tug. He darted to one side, towel in hand, as his now-fully-nude companion yelped.

The boy with the toothbrush stopped in his tracks, face flushing not at the sight of his friend's bare bottom, but at the appreciative grin on Millie's face. He pointed his foamy brush at her.

"Guys. Guys!"

All three heads turned to stare, and the boy without a towel immediately held his shower caddy over his front.

"I didn't know I would get a show!" Millie opened her wallet and pulled out a twenty, which she placed in the shower caddy. Her eyes lit on the boy with the extra towel in his hand. "Who's next?"

A catcall and a shrill whistle rang out from further down the hall. Now, all three were beet red. Millie gave the naked one a wink and moved past them. They parted instantly to let her through.

Millie pulled a paper from her purse, even though she had memorized the number on the way over here. She double checked anyway, just to calm her nerves. Room 143. She paused in front of the closed door. This was it. The moment she had been waited twenty years for. Millie raised her hand and knocked.

The door swung open to reveal another bare chest, but thankfully this young man was wearing shorts instead of a towel. Millie looked him up and down from toes to hair, and smiled. The sharp chin, the soft eyes, the height. Yes, this was the right boy.

"Um-can I help you?" The boy's eyes darted up and down the hallway, as if sure she had come to the wrong room.

"You are Sam Winchester?"

His chin twitched in surprise. "Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes, I'm Sam. Who's asking?"

Millie reached into her purse again and pulled out an old photograph. "I know you don't recognize me, but I thought you might recognize this."

Sam stared at the image of two boys sitting between their father and an older woman. One of the boys was just a baby, barely six months old. The other was four, and already knew how to pose for the camera. Their father beamed at the camera.

Sam's mouth dropped open slowly, and he reached for the photo. "That's us. I mean, that's Dad, and Dean, and that's probably me. How did you-?" His eyes landed on the fourth person in the picture, the old woman. Her hair hadn't been as gray back then, nor her face as wrinkled, but Millie didn't think she had changed that much. She waited.

"Who are you?" Sam asked.

Millie gripped his hand tight. "My name is Millie Winchester. I'm your grandmother, Sam."

o0o

Sam stared at the photograph perched on his knees. He had seen these faces before, even though he could not remember them for himself. His dad, a bright smile plastered across his face. Dean, looking sweet and innocent. A baby perched between them, and Sam had see enough pictures to recognize himself. But he didn't recognize the woman. She was seated beside John, young Dean settled on her lap as if her were perfectly comfortable there. As if he knew her well.

 _I'm your grandmother_.

So the old woman claimed, and this was her proof.

It was pretty convincing.

Sam had asked questions about his mother for as long as he could remember. Dean loved to tell him about her, about some things. Other details were hidden, and Sam still had questions that had never been answered. The mystery of his mother had eclipsed everything else. Sam had never thought to ask about anyone else. He had a vague idea that his grandparents were dead, but that was all.

Clearly, that was not the case.

 _Dad lied to us._

Had he? Sam wasn't even sure. He couldn't remember being told his grandparents were dead, he just knew they were.

Clearly, he hadn't been asking enough questions.

Sam looked up at the clock. It was a quarter to ten. The woman. Millie. His grandmother. She had put the picture in his hands, invited him to brunch, and then left without another word.

He could have chased her down. It wouldn't have been hard. But had had been frozen in shock.

 _My grandmother is alive_.

And she wanted to have brunch.

Sam had never been to a brunch in his life. Brunch was what suburban kids did with their families on Sunday morning. They put on fancy clothes and went to eat fancy food with other people who lived in nice big houses.

What did this woman expect from him? What would she think about the way he had been raised?

Sam stood in front of the mirror and adjusted his shirt. "Do I need a tie? Have you ever been to brunch?"

Brady glanced up from his homework and shrugged. "Who cares?"

"My grandmother."

Brady's eyebrows rose. "That old lady who caught Hesse without a towel?"

Sam flushed slightly. Everyone in the dorm had heard about that. "Yeah."

"Definitely go with the tie."

o0o

White tablecloths, waiters in black blow ties, and napkins folded up to look like swans. Sam paused at the door, hesitant to enter. He didn't belong in a place like this. But there she was, his grandmother, sitting primly at a white table and fussing with the place setting. Sam tried to picture his father as a child, having brunch in a place like this with his mother.

All he wound up with was the image of a miniature grizzled man polishing his shotgun with the tablecloth.

Millie looked like she belonged here. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun reminiscent of a 1940's hairstyle. She wore a silk dress and a string of pearls around her neck, with a glittering pin in one lapel. Her hands were wrinkled, covered in liver spots, and shook slightly as they moved. In short, she was everything one would expect a grandmother to look like.

 _Why haven't I met her before?_

 _Because Dad doesn't like brunch? No. Because Dad is obsessed_.

The woman-Millie-Grandma? He didn't know what to call her. She lifted her head and her eyes searched the room. When they landed on Sam, a huge smile lit her face. She rose out of her seat and waited, arms outstretched. The gesture dissolved his hesitation. He crossed the room and landed in her warm hug before he realized what he was doing.

Did having a mom feel anything like this? He wouldn't know.

"Oh, look at how big you are! Sit, sit! Here, go fill your plate!" Within the same minute Sam was settled into a chair, and then hustle back out of it. He returned from the buffet line with a plate nearly spilling over, which earned him a, "Oh, don't worry, you can go back as many times as you like."

"Oh. Right. Ok." Sam stared at his pile of bacon and pancakes and then back at the woman in front of him. "I'm not sure-I mean-" What should he say to a grandmother?

Millie held out her arm. "Do you need a blood sample? A bit of hair or skin cells for a DNA test to prove we're related?"

"Ah-no. It's spit, actually. They like to use your spit."

Millie licked her teeth. "Spit, hm? I thought you were here for a law degree, not forensic science."

"I am. How did you know?" Sam wracked his brain for anything he knew about this woman. She was a farmer's daughter, and her husband had abandoned her when John was six. That was all he knew.

She didn't look like she belonged on a farm, and she didn't have the haggard, overworked look of a woman who had been left to face the world alone. Her eyes sparkled, and she dug into her plate with gusto.

"How did you even find me?"

Another smile flashed across her face; she looked very proud of herself. "The internet." She said it as if she had found an alien spaceship. "It's this lovely new device. Well, I suppose it's not on a device. I don't know what it is. Is it floating out in the air around us, like radio waves? No one could really explain. But it-"

"I know what the internet is," Sam said. "But I didn't think my address was on it."

"Not your address, no I had to bribe the registrar for that. But you're on the Dean's List, Sam. Straight-As, congratulations. So they published your name, and here we are!"

"My name was published?" Sam knew the Deans' List was posted on campus, and he'd gotten a letter about it, but he didn't realize anyone could look it up.

It didn't matter. Dad wouldn't bother.

But his grandmother had. "Why were you reading the Dean's List at Stanford?" Sam asked. Dad was an only child, so she didn't have any other grandchildren.

"I wasn't. I was looking for you. I've put your name into every search engine I could find once a year since the internet was invented." There was a stubborn glint in her eyes, and suddenly Sam could see how she was related to his father. "You are a hard man to find."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, it's not _your_ fault." There was a bite in her tone, and Sam suddenly wondered if she was here for him at all. Because she was right, it wasn't his fault. "Where is your father, anyway? Did you tell him about our little date?" Her eyes flicked around the room, as if expecting to see John Winchester lurking behind a pair of sunglasses and a newspaper.

"No, I didn't. We don't talk."

Millie's eyes snapped back to him. "What?" She asked sharply.

"I didn't call him. I doubt he'd answer the phone if I tried. We had a bad fight when I left for college, and he threw me out. Told me never to come back." The words still stung, even though it had been nearly a year. No, Dad wouldn't care that he had made the Dean's List. Sam wasn't useful for hunting anymore, so Dad didn't care about him at all.

Millie let out a sharp breath. "Did he? John Winchester! He should know better!"

"Know better?" Sam echoed. "Why?"

"Why, because I had the same argument with him, only in reverse."

That was a puzzle that didn't fit. "In reverse?"

"I wanted him to go to college. I wanted him to study like his father."

"Well, that would do it right there. Dad hated his father." Sam was 100% sure of that.

"Yes. I realized that eventually." Millie glared at her sausage as if it was to blame. "I tried to explain-but he wouldn't listen. He ripped up his college applications, told me he was going to join the army, and stormed out."

"Marines," Sam corrected automatically.

"What?"

"Marines. Dad joined the Marines, not the Army."

Millie rolled her eyes. "Whatever. He wanted to play with machines and shoot guns, when there was so much more his mind could do! I thought for sure I would never see him again. He would be headed straight for Vietnam, you know. I expected a knock on the door and a letter with a purple heart attached. That hour after he walked out was the worst of my life."

"Only an hour?" Sam asked. He had felt terrible for much longer than that, after he stormed away from his last fight with Dad.

A fond smile flashed across Millie's face. "Well, he was still seventeen. Had a week to go before his birthday, you see. It was a cold and stormy night, and he didn't want to sleep on the street. The enlistment office was closed, and they wouldn't have taken him yet anyway. He turned up back on my doorstep looking wet and miserable."

"You let him back in?"

"Of course I did! I wasn't going to let my boy sleep in the street."

Sam stared at his plate. He remember a few nights on the streets on his way to Palo Alto. Thankfully, he had found a friend on the way. ** It never occurred to him that his father might have felt the same way, ever. John Winchester, feeling alone and scared?

But he had gone back home. And his mother had taken him in.

"So you see, your father should have known better." Millie reached across the table and placed her hand on his. "I'm so very happy you came to college, Sam. I'm so very proud of everything you've done here."

Sam felt a lump rising in his throat. He had never heard those words before. He hadn't realized how much he wanted to hear them. "Thanks."

"So, tell me everything."

"What?" Sam's insides squirmed. He should have expected this.

"Tell me about your life. Where have you been all this time? What have you been doing? What do you want for the future? Have you got a girl to settle down with yet?"

 _Tell me about your life_. Well, grandma, I lived in a different motel every month. Although sometimes, Dad didn't bother to get a motel and we slept in the car. I learned to shoot a gun when I was six, and fought my first monster when I was ten.

Somehow, that didn't seem like the right thing to say.

"Well, we traveled a lot."

"Yes. I thought as much." Millie's tone matched Sam's. As if she, too, wasn't saying everything. "Go on."

Details. She wanted normal details about a normal life. What did he have to give? "I played soccer when I was in sixth grade. I did tech for the school musical in high school." Yes, there were a few things he could say. Small details wedged between the ongoing drama that was the Winchester way. "Decided sports and art weren't my thing, and lawyers make good money."

"That they do," Millie agreed sagely. She waited, letting the silence drift between them. Sam shifted and filled his face with pancakes, to hide the fact that he didn't know what to say.

"Right, I thought this might happen." Millie pulled a large handbag onto her lap and withdrew a deck of cards labeled "Table Topics." "Take a card."

Sam blinked. For a brief moment, it felt as if he was in a Mary Poppins movie. What else did she have in that bag?

Millie wagged the cards. "They won't bite. I find them quite entertaining."

Sam slowly pulled a card from the deck and read it out loud. "What would be a really good flavor for toothpaste?"

Millie grinned. "Oh, I have the best idea…"

o0o

"Who's coming here for Easter?" Bobby asked, as if he'd just been told the Easter Bunny was real.

"My grandmother."

"How did that happen?"

"I don't know." One minute, he had been answering harmless questions about toothpaste, and the next, he had been marking holiday plans in his calendar.

On the bunk bed, Brady snickered. "Grandmothers. They always get their way."

"That ain't it." Bobby continued, unaware of Brady's heckling. "I didn't think John Winchester had a mother."

"Then where did you think he came from, Bobby?" Although Sam had thought the exact same thing. He still couldn't reconcile the woman he had met with the father he knew. They were so different.

Millie was happy.

"I dunno, I thought he just kinda thought he sprang out of the ground with a shotgun in hand. John Winchester as a baby." Sam could hear the shudder. "It's a strange thought. What was she like?"

"She was nice. And bossy. At the same time." Ok, maybe John and Millie weren't so different. She didn't bark orders, but she got her way. "She looked for us for twenty years, Bobby."

"And I thought John was stubborn," Bobby snorted. "To just leave his mother without any word..."

Sam bit his lip, but said nothing. He'd been mad at John Winchester for so long, one more reason didn't seem to make much difference.

"Well, if she's coming, you're cleaning."

"What?"

"You heard me. You want to bring your grandmother to my grimy old house? I don't think so. You are coming down a week early, and you're buying a scrub brush and bleach on the way. Understood?"

Sam hung up the phone, and Brady startled cackling. "You should see your face!"

Sam threw a textbook at him. "Shut up!"

Brady threw the book back and kept laughing. "You wanted a family again, man. Now you've got it."

o0o

No one carried handkerchiefs anymore. They had once been the essential fashion accessory. Even Bilbo Baggins knew better than to leave home without a handkerchief. These days, it was all paper tissues, if a person had a tissue on hand at all.

Millie always kept her handkerchief close to hand. It was just sensible. But she had promised herself she would make it through brunch without needing it.

Millie had promised she would find her family again, and she had. Holding John close the night Mary died, she had promised to look after his boys. Millie always kept her promises.

So she hadn't shed a single tear until Sam left the restaurant. Her eyes remained dry all the way back to the hotel. Then the deluge began.

And why shouldn't she cry? She'd found her grandson again. He was tall, smart, ambitious, and stubborn. Just like his father. It was a recipe for trouble, and Millie had a feeling he'd already seen more than his fair share. Off doing whatever it was John was up to these does.

Whatever it was that had made him pack up and leave Lawrence in the middle of the night without a word. He'd left nothing for her. No note, no phone number, no hint of where he might be.

Gone was the seventeen-year-old who still needed his mother. No, that boy had never returned from the war. But that had been alright. Children were supposed to grow up. But they weren't supposed to vanish.

What had scared her boy so bad he didn't think he could come home?

She didn't know, but she was going to find out.

Millie stared at the phone number in her hand, the last gift of her visit with Sam. She wasn't a woman who was easily scared, and she didn't get nervous often. But today, her hands couldn't seem to stop shaking. Funny, how being nervous and being happy sometimes felt exactly the same. It was just a string of numbers, but this string of numbers could change her world. Brunch had been wonderful, but she wanted more than Sam.

She wanted all her boys.

She wanted her son.

What mother wouldn't? She'd learned her lesson that night he stormed out to join the marines, and she would never make the same mistake again. It didn't matter why he had left. It didn't matter how much the leaving had hurt her. She wanted to see her son again, and she wasn't going to stop until she did.

But Sam didn't have John's phone number on him.

Only Dean's.

Well. Maybe it was better this way.

Millie picked up the motel room phone, she preferred to use a landline whenever she could, and dialed the number. She held her breath as the phone rang. What had become of the sweet four-year-old she had last seen?

o0o

NOTE: If you are wondering about Sam's Stanford-era connection with Bobby, read my story "Park Bench." And this is pre-demon Brady, he's just a normal kid who is Sam's friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Colorado**

The shabby motel room was exactly like hundreds of others. The paint on the door was chipped and cracked, the room number was crooked, the door handle sticky with black plaque. Dean flipped on the light to reveal a carpet speckled with stains, faded wall paper, and a bed covered in threadbare sheets. It was a familiar sight, and it was the only version of home he knew. There was nothing wrong with the accommodations.

Except that he entered alone.

Dean swept his eyes over the single bed and felt his shoulders slump. There was no little brother at his elbow, asking what was for dinner or if he could go find the vending machine yet. There was no father marching behind, telling him to pick up his feet or lay out tasks for the evening. There was no one but him, the TV, and a stack of lore books to help him track down the spirit haunting the town square.

Dean had never hated the job until he had to do it alone. Somehow, Sam leaving had meant that Dean graduated John Winchester's school of hunting. He was allowed to hunt alone now. Ordered to hunt alone. Sometimes, Dad traveled with him, and sometimes he sent Dean in a different direction. Like today.

It wasn't so bad. He was still hunting, still saving people, still following orders and making his father happy. But he couldn't stop the the sick, sinking feeling that twisted his guts every time he opened the door to another single occupant motel room.

The phone in his pocket began to vibrate with the sweet strains of Metallica. Right on time. Dad had spent enough years on the road, he knew exactly how long it took to get anywhere. He had given Dean his marching orders exactly seven hours ago, when they had parted ways after lunch.

Dean was old enough to be comfortable traveling on his own. He didn't need a babysitter, and he didn't need his father to make sure he got in safely. But he wasn't going to tell the old man to stop. Not now, not ever. "Hi, Dad."

"Dean, how was the drive?"

"Fine. Just fine."

"Make it to the bar yet?"

Dean grinned. His father knew him too well. Of all the orders John gave, staying away from girls and booze had never been among them. "I just walked in the door."

"Yeah, well. Don't get too distracted. There was another death while you were driving, it was on the news."

Dean sighed. His exploration of the local nightlife would have to wait until after he ganked this ghost. Dean fished into his pocket to make sure the FBI badge was in its spot. "I'm on my way."

Almost as soon as Dean had closed the phone, it began to vibrate again. A glance at the screen told him it was not John Winchester calling again. The area code was from Arizona, but that didn't mean much. Hunters changed phone numbers as often as they changed socks.

"This is Dean."

"Dean? Dean Winchester?" The voice on the other end of the line was not what he expected. It was soft, feminine. Dean knew better than to let a one-night-stand get a hold of his phone number. Who could this be?

"Yes. Who are you and how did you get this number?"

The woman drew in a deep breath. "This is Millie Winchester."

Something cold churned in Dean's gut. He knew that name.

Was this a revenant? A shifter? A bored kid with access to an internet search engine and a taste for tasteless jokes? It didn't matter.

"Millie Winchester is dead. I don't know who you are or what you want, but don't call me again. I have a job to do." He had a dead body in the middle of town square growing cold on the cement, and he had to get it the crime scene before the police ruined all the evidence. Dean shut the phone with a snap.

But a nagging voice in the back of his head told him he had heard that voice before. The phone buzzed again, but Dean ignored it. He had said all he needed to say. He had a job to do.

o0o

Millie pursed her lips and glared at the phone in her hand. Sam she knew could not recognize her, but she had hoped for something from Dean. He had clung to her very tightly in the weeks after Mary died, the weeks before John vanished. She had assumed she would babysit the boys whenever John was at work, and fill the role of their mother as best she could. John certainly wasn't paying much attention to them. He had been obsessed with finding a reason why his wife died.

Had been convinced she was pinned to the ceiling when the fire started.

That was when Millie knew it was time for John to see Henry's old books, the ones he had kept locked up tight away from prying eyes. The ones he took to his secret midnight meetings. John might find the answers he wanted in there.

But when Millie arrived at the house with the books in hand, she had found the place empty. There was no note, no explanation. One day they were simply gone, and the deed to all of John's property was left sitting out on the table. Signed over to her.

"He wasn't likely to remember you. He was awfully young." A glass of water hovered in front of her nose, accompanied by a hand offering two Advil.

Millie sighed and took the pain killers. She hadn't said a word, but somehow Hartley knew her hip was acting up again. He settled on the bed next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Dressed in tweed, with wire-rimmed spectacles and the clinging smell of tobacco, Hartley always knew what she needed. Millie leaned into his shoulder. "I know. But I hoped." Hoped for a miracle. After meeting Sam, it had seemed possible.

"So, where are we off to next?"

"I don't know yet." Millie held up the phone. "These things can be tracked, can't they?"

Hartley considered the phone and nodded. "Yes, but I can only work magic with numbers on paper. This-"

"You did taxes for that group with NASA last year, didn't you?" Millie had expected a quiet life when she married an accountant. Numbers and ledgers rarely got one murdered in the middle of the night. It had worked out, for the most part. But the life of an accountant was very different from the life of his clients.

Hartley smiled. "Yes, yes I did. I found five different ways they could have landed in jail. I'll wager they could spare a few moments of satellite time for us."

o0o

Dirt. Dean had see enough dirt to last a lifetime. Salt and burn made things sound so simple, but usually it was dig, salt, burn, and then bury again. Dirt, dirt, and more dirt. Dean could already feel the grit working its way through his boots, up his sleeves, and down his waistband.

Dean heaved his shovel high, emptied it over the edge of the grave, then dropped it down into the dirt again with a grunt. He paused, a sound caught in his ear. There were voices nearby. That was never a good thing. He tapped the dirt and checked his height against the edge of the pit. It was nearly level with his shoulder. Which meant he was nearly there.

The voices might pass him by, but they might be here to stop him. Every graveyard had its keeper, someone who took offense when Hunters came to dig up the dead. He leaned into the shovel harder.

"Millie, this is a graveyard!" The voice belonged to a man.

"Yes, I can see that," a woman replied. "The map says its not too far off now."

Ha! Probably a pair of teenagers looking for a good hook-up spot.

"I told you we can try the GPS again in the morning. Maybe he'll be somewhere else by then."

"Hartley, I am not waiting any longer. I have been waiting for twenty years, and I finally know where he is. I am finding the little dot on this phone. I don't care where it is."

Dean frowned. That didn't sound like a couple out to make hickies. It sounded like they were looking for someone specific.

"Millie, he's digging a grave. We need to leave now."

Yes, leave now.

"After we've come all this way? I don't think so." The relentless crunch of footsteps did not retreat. Instead, they settled just above Dean's head. Somehow, though, he didn't think this couple sounded like the graveyard patrol come to roust him from his work.

 _Thunk_! His shovel hit wood instead of dirt. Would the nosy midnight strollers be scared away at the sight of a corpse? Would they call the police as they ran the other direction?

It didn't matter. He had enough time to salt, burn, and run. Dean lifted the shovel high and battered at the wooden coffin lid.

"Dean?" The firm voice insisted on making itself heard above the racket. "Dean Winchester?"

Dean shifted the shovel to one hand and moved the other toward his back where his gun was tucked into his belt.

An elderly man and woman stood at the edge of the gravesite, looking as if they had come straight out of a black-and-white movie. The man had a round face and a round belly covered by a tweed jacket, and was holding a flashlight in one hand. The woman wore a belted trench coat, with a scarf over her gray hair and a cane in her hand which she used to poke at the hole Dean had dug.

"What is the purpose of this?"

Dean stared. He had only been four, but there were some things he would never forget. His mother's face. His home in Lawrence. The memories were fuzzy, but he kept them fresh by thinking of them often. He needed to remember home. Remember the family that he had lost. He knew her voice, he knew her face. "Grandma?"

Her smile was warm and broad and lit up her entire face. "Yes, Dean. You do remember!"

Dean's gun hand hung limply at his side. "I thought you were dead."

"No. Did John tell you I was?"

Dad wouldn't lie to me. No, Dean couldn't believe that. Gone like Mom. Never going to see her again. That's what Dad had said. Not dead. He had never said 'dead.'

Dean lifted himself out of the hole and came to face her. He put a hand on her shoulder. It was solid, real. "How do I know it's you?"

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a star-mint, which he offered to Dean. "You would always be after me for this. I caught your fingers in my pockets more times than I could count."

Dean grasped the mint and stared at the red-and-white swirled candy. In his memory, this man was much taller, but that was only because Dean had been so small. But he remembered the candy. It was always the first thing he asked for. "Hartley. Grandma's friend Hartley."

Millie patted Hartley's hand. "Husband. We're married now."

"Married?" Dean blinked. "But grandpa-but you-" The very idea felt odd. Millie had already been married once.

"Just because your father never managed to move on after he lost Mary doesn't mean that's the way it has to be for everyone. You can miss the dead and still build a new life."

Strange words. Stranger still coming from a Winchester.

"I'll gladly give up some spit for a DNA test, if you like. But I thought this might help." Millie held forward a brightly wrapped gift box. The paper was faded and brittle with age, and boasted Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles wearing Santa hats. "This was for you, but John left before I could give it to you."

Dean ripped the paper from the package to reveal a stuffed turtle with a purple eye-mask and holding a fighting staff. "Donatello!" Dean could picture a turtle just like this one, three of them lined up in a row above his bed. "I had all the rest. I just needed Donny to finish the set."

"I don't suppose to care for Ninja Turtles anymore, but-"

Dean stared at the woman in front of him. "You kept this."

"Yes."

"For twenty years."

"Yes. Do you believe it's me yet?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I do. Grandma-" The rest of her words were choked out of him as Millie wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight. He could feel moisture leak through his shirt. Was she crying?

He could feel moisture on his cheeks, too, and it wasn't raining.

After a moment Millie stepped back, dabbing at her eyes with a hanky. She gestured to the open grave. "But I can see I've interrupted something. Will this take much longer?"

Dean looked down at the cracked coffin lid and shook his head. No need to re-cover the grave. He was going to leave town by morning anyway. "No. Five minutes, tops. But-um-you might not want to watch."

Millie raised her eyebrows. "Are you going to open that coffin?"

Dean nodded.

"Good gracious why?" Hartley stammered.

Usually, Dean wouldn't have any trouble supplying an answer. Usually, he didn't care what people thought of him.

Millie tapped the gas can with her cane, eliciting a hollow clang. "I think he plans to burn it. The question remains. Why?"

"He's got it coming."

Millie squinted at the headstone. "He's been dead fifty years."

"Yeah, and it's been a busy fifty years."

Millie's lips pressed together in a thin line. Dean waited for her face to twist in disgust, for a scream, for a threat. But none came. Her tone, when she spoke again, was calm and cool. "Hm. And the salt?"

"I have a sodium deficiency. Have to keep it on hand, just in case."

Hartley raised both eyebrows. "Five pounds?"

Dean nodded without missing a beat. "Better safe than sorry." He looked down at the turtle in his hands. This was his grandma. She had waited for twenty years to give him his Christmas present.

She'd picked her way through the graveyard to find him when she could have waited for morning.

No. She probably wasn't going to run away from what Dean had to do next.

What kind of woman as his grandmother, anyway? Dean realized he had no idea.

He jumped back into the grave and finished prying the coffin open. Millie didn't make a peep when he exposed the remains, and handed him the bag of salt before he could ask for it.

As if she knew what it was for.

But she couldn't. Could she?

"Fire and salt." Hartley had taken a step back, and turned away from the scene, his face pale.

"Purification." Millie held out the gas can next. "Isn't that right?"

"Yeah." Dean doused the corpse in the gasoline and pulled out his lighter. "How'd you know that?"

"I've done my research. Your father was talking about the monster who killed your mother before he left. It gave me a good place to start."

Dean stared, the harsh light of the flames making strange shadows dance between them. "What are you doing here? Why show up now, after all these years?"

"Believe me, Dean, I would have been here years ago if I knew where you find you. Your father disappeared and took you with him. The police don't call it kidnapping when a parents moves with their own child. They can't look for a missing person when that person is an adult and allowed to come and go as they please. No one would help me find you. And your father, well, he learned a few tricks in the Marines."

"Dad hid from you on purpose?"

"Yes. I suspect he thought I would object." Millie gestured to the burning corpse. "And at the time, I probably would have. Tonight, well. I've waited to see you again for twenty years. I'm not here to judge what you do on your night off."

Night off? Ha!

"I wish I could have been there, Dean. I know it must have been hard without a mother. I know I couldn't replace her, but I wanted to be there for you. Your father had different plans. But I wanted to watch you grow up, Dean. I wanted to take care of you. It's important to me that you know that."

Dean felt his world tilt a little. What would life have been like, with a grandmother to help babysit? Someone else to help look after Sammy.

Someone to look after him.

"It's ok, Grandma. I know." Dean bent down to pick up the turtle again. "You know, I still love these guys."

Millie snorted. "I never understood the appeal. I prefer my soap operas. Yes, you heard me. I'm addicted and I'm not ashamed to admit it. But you look thirsty. There's a diner down the road. Last time I took you out, we had milkshakes. I suppose you'll want a beer now?"

"Actually, a milkshake sounds great." Dean shouldered his shovel and held out his arm. Millie tucked her cane under her arm and wrapped her hands around his elbow.

Hartley settled into step on Dean's other side, and murmured, "Whatever you do, don't get her started on Dr. Sexy, MD."

Dean couldn't stop the grin spreading across his face. "You like Dr. Sexy?"

 **Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Oklahoma**

Millie stared at the blinking dot on her phone. Twenty years of searching had led her here. Twenty years of hoping had made it possible. Twenty years of questions came simmering to the surface. Twenty years of anger boiled just beneath.

"Don't you think it would be a good idea to call first?"Hartley's tone was cautious, as always. "I know Dean didn't recognize your voice, but your son-"

"I'm certain he will. That's why I won't call."

She wasn't going to give him another chance to run away. She wasn't going to give him any time to prepare a lie. No, John Winchester deserved no warning at all.

 _Don't tell your father_. There had been a wary look in Dean's eyes when she made her request, after the last milkshake was drunk and dawn began to peer through the windows. But he had agreed, and Millie trusted he would keep his word.

Hartley didn't offer to go with her. He knew she wouldn't let him. This was between mother and son.

The motel was on the other side of town from her tidy room with four stars on the plaque. There were no stars here, and no one cared. They only cared about cash in hand and no questions asked.

A twenty was all it took to get the room number from the man at the desk. A credit card jimmied in the frame popped the lock without trouble.

Millie hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. What would she find inside?

When she had gone to find Henry, she had found herself knee deep in blood and dead flesh. It wasn't something she wanted to see again.

Dean had been digging a grave, as comfortable in the cemetery as if it had been a living room. It was clear that John had not hidden the darker side of life from his sons, as Millie had done for him. She had tried to protect him by hiding all knowledge of other-worldly things from him. She thought it the only way to keep him safe, to keep from losing him as she had lost Henry. But she had lost him anyway. John had taught his children everything they didn't want to know, but had he fared any better? One son refused to speak of him, the other clung to memories of a life he could never get back.

What was John mixed up in? She had her guesses, but she realized that is all they were. Guesses. He was no Man of Letters. He had gotten into something else. Something more violent. Something more dangerous.

Millie drew in a deep breath and pushed the door open. Salt scattered from its line in front of the door, guarding against the restless dead. The smell of sweat and mud oozed from a pile of dirty laundry in the corner. Green tufts of mold grew from last night's leftovers, sitting out on the desk. She had taught her son to keep a clean home, but when he was distracted, his focus on his project overwhelmed all else.

Millie did not have to look far to see what held John's attention now. It was displayed on the wall like a grotesque parody of a grade school project. But this was not a work she would have pinned to the fridge. This belonged deep in the basement, or hidden behind the locked walls of a secret society.

Yellow eyes stared at her from the patchwork of information. There was no blood. There were no dead bodies. Yet the sight left her with the same sick feeling. Once again, a demon had taken her family. Henry was gone, vanished without a trace. John was just as far gone, chasing something he could never catch and had no way to kill. If he didn't stop, this hunt would end with his death. Of that, Millie was certain.

o0o

 _There's something Dean's not telling me_. It wasn't like his eldest to hide things from his father. But there was something in Dean's tone as he gave his post hunt report that told John there was more. Something else had happened. Something Dean wasn't sharing.

John sighed and fished in his pocket for a pair of quarters. He wanted a beer, but the nearest shop was too far away and John was tired. He approached the old vending machine, which listed to one side, and rested his forehead against the cool, humming surface. It sounded as worn out as he felt, groaning with the effort to just keep going. How had he wound up here, alone in the dark, pining for the sound of his children's voices? Used to be, they were always there, their presence the energy that propelled him forward.

Used to be, he could count on Sam to drag these things out of Dean. The boys complimented each other, each taking up a part of the role their missing parent should have filled. They cared for each other in a way John could not. Now Sam was gone, and he had sent Dean away. Away was better. Alone, he was free to chase this thing. The thing that had killed his wife. The thing he was convinced would come back for his son. They were safer away from this. But he didn't know if he could survive the emptiness.

The quarters clattered as they tumbled into the machine. It whined, but there was no thunk. John checked the flap just to be sure, but he could already tell his drink was stuck. Just one more thing to add to his string of bad luck.

 _Thump_! A silver-handled walking cane rapped the side of the machine, and the soda can dropped. The woman holding the cane reached down and pulled the soda free, then turned to hand it to John.

The icy chill from the tin can was like a shock that pierced his bones. He was frozen, one hand on the can of soda, mouth agape. The woman stared back calmly, leaning slightly on her cane, waiting for his reaction.

A cane? When had she started to use that?

"Mom?" His voice tripped over the word. He knew her face, would never forget it. But she looked different. Smaller. Her face was filled with new lines, her hair grayer than before.

No. His mother was living in Arizona, far from here.

He blinked and scrubbed at his face. He must be more exhausted than he thought. The light was playing tricks on him.

But when he lowered his hand, she was still there.

"I always said these machines are utterly ridiculous. A real soda, from a fountain, now that's good stuff." She gave the vending machine another smack, and another can dropped into the receptacle. "But it was harder to get two for the price of one in those days. Progress. Ah, well." She popped the top with a snap, and the drink hissed as condensation rose from the spout.

"Mom." John said again, this time more certain. This was no trick of the light, no memory interrupting his waking dreams. She was solid, she was real, and she was here.

"I'm not sure. That depends on who is addressing me. It's been a very long time since I saw my son, and I can barely see your face through all that stubble." Her words were terse, her face set and stern, but he knew her too well to be fooled. He had seen through the cracks in her armor more than once.

John stepped forward and wrapped her up in a hug, cane, soda, and all. She hugged him back, her arms strong as he ever remembered them to be. Then she pulled back, pushed him away, and gave him the full brunt of her glare. The stern mask was gone, and he wished for it back. Now she made no attempt to hide the anger that flashed in her eyes. And under the anger was pain. Always.

"John Eric Winchester. How could you do that to me?" Tears were streaming down her face, but her words were steel, and they cut deep. "All those years so angry at your father. All those years talking about how horrible it was that he left us. No note, no explanation. Just gone, gone away never to come back. And then what do I find? An empty house. No note. No phone call. Just gone. Just like your father." She snapped her fingers. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

John blinked. He couldn't process her words, not yet. He needed time. "Dean. Did you talk to Dean?"

"What I say to my grandsons, and what they say to me, is of no concern to you. They are grown men and make their own decisions. Don't change the subject!"

So, she had found Dean. No wonder he sounded rattled. John would have to fix that later. He'd let Dean think his grandmother was dead.

He had hoped is mother would think he was dead and forget about him. Move on the way she had after Henry left.

 _Just like your father_.

No. He was nothing like his father. He checked on his sons every day. He made sure they knew where he was. Always.

"What are you doing here? I left you the house, what more do you want?" His words were his only shield, and the flew out of his mouth before he could stop them. "You got married and moved to Arizona! You should be enjoying your retirement."

 _No! That was the wrong thing to say_.

Millie's eyes narrowed. "You knew I got married, but you couldn't be bothered to send a card? You knew my new address, but didn't call? John!"

 _Just like your father_. No! He had meant to protect her. That was the opposite of what Henry had done.

"How did you even find me?" She was a farmer's daughter. She worked as a secretary. She knew nothing about living off the grid, about tracking, about hunting.

If he was just like his father, why had she bothered to look at all? She hadn't looked for Henry.

"When I set my mind to something, it happens. You of all people should know that. I lost my husband, and I raised a son on my own. Did you think I would just let go and forget about you? No."

"You did when Dad left." He had known his leaving would hurt her, but he had seen her survive before. He had hoped she could do it again.

"You are going to bring your father into this?"

"You started it."

"Don't try to wriggle out of this, John." She lifted her chin and jabbed her cane at him. "Why did you leave me?"

John slumped to the ground, butt hitting the concrete, head in his hands, hands on his knees. "I didn't know what else to do." He was sobbing now, and he didn't care. Millie landed next to him, arm around his shoulder, hand on his head. She made soft shushing noises, as she had when he was a child. "I got mixed up in something bad, Mom. I didn't want you getting mixed up in it, too."

"And your children?"

John just shook his head. He had thought about leaving Dean with his grandmother and taking only Sam on the road. Sam was the one had had to protect. Sam was the one the demons wanted. But in the end, he couldn't separate them. He needed them too much.

Just like he needed his mother to be safe. Normal. The last piece of this life untainted by the Hunt.

Millie sighed. "What a fine pair we make? I suppose it's all my fault. I started this."

"What?"

Millie turned his chin so she could look him straight in the eye and said slowly, "I lied." When John said nothing, she continued, "Your father didn't leave. He was murdered, and I didn't know how to explain that to a six-year-old, so I told you he left."

It was as if John's whole life flashed before his eyes. Every moment of it suddenly re-defined by this new fact. "What?"

"Your father died, John." Her tone was softer now, and she was looking at her toes. "At least, I assume he did. They never found his body, but his friends were all dead." Her face was gray with the memory of it, and she looked like she had bit into something sour.

"His friends?" John asked. He remembered something about a room full of dead men. It was part of why they had left Illinois and returned to Kansas. Because the town of Normal was no longer safe for a single mother and her son.

Millie nodded. "Yes, they were all in a 'secret society' that studied magic and other things. I didn't want you going anywhere near that stuff, so I couldn't explain about your father. You would have gone looking for the demon that killed him. But it didn't mater, did it? You're hunting a demon anyway."

There were too many things in her words that didn't make sense. That couldn't be. Dad killed by a demon? She knew what he was hunting? How?

"How did you know that?"

"If you don't want people snooping in your business, you need to get a better lock. It's all there on the wall." She gestured toward his room.

She was right, of course. It was all there on the wall.

Millie stood and gestured for John to follow. She led him to a small car, a rental judging by the plates, and opened the back door to reveal boxes of books. The titles were in old-style script, and some were in Latin, but they were all about the supernatural. He had walked past these books a thousand times. They had been in the attic his entire life. But never once had he even looked at the titles, much less cracked the cover.

"You're looking for a demon with yellow eyes, yes?"

John nodded mutely. There were no words left. He was not used to surprises. Usually, he was the one hiding the secrets. And where had he learned to hide secrets so well?

"There are only four demons with yellow eyes. Did you know that? This should help narrow it down." She lifted a book from the box and held it out. "Well, take it! It won't bite."

"My dad was-"

"Murdered by a demon. Yes. But I don't think it had yellow eyes. Please, don't try to find it. One desperate quest for revenge is enough for a lifetime, don't you think?" She gripped his hand tightly. "John? Did you hear me?"

"You knew about all this, and you just ignored it?"

"I had a son to raise." Her tone left no room for debate. For her, it was as simple as that.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He could have studied for years before he met Mary. He could have been prepared. He could have defended his home.

"Would you have believed me?" Her words doused his rising anger as effectively as a bucket of cold water. "Besides, I tried. Do you remember?"

John shook his head, but not because he didn't remember. No, he remembered all too well. Every time she had mentioned Henry, John had flown into a rage. He had hated that she still loved him, even after he abandoned them.

No. He didn't abandon them. He was murdered. John clenched his fist, but there was no place to vent his anger. It was far too late for that.

"You should have told me he was dead."

"I know. You shouldn't have left me."

He couldn't argue the point. "I'm sorry."

Her hands patted his shoulder. "I know, dear."

John gripped his mother's hand tight. "Where do we go from here?"

She wrapped her arm around his elbow and pointed toward his motel room. "Why don't you start by finding me a nice chair. We've a few things to talk about, don't you think?"

John nodded, and wrapped her up in his arms again. He didn't know how he had managed so long without her. Now she was here again, he didn't know how he could let her go.

But he would have to. There was no choice. The yellow eyed demon would come for Sam. John couldn't stop the hunt. How was he going to convince her to go home and stay out of it?

He didn't now. He could figure that out in the morning. For now, he did as she asked, and led her back to his room for a long overdue talk.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Final Chapter**

He came late in the night, in the hours after one day had ended but the next was yet to begin. A fitting time for moving on.

His face was stern and looked as if it had been chiseled from bone, but was not unpleasant. He showed no expression, but his eyes glittered as one who takes pride in a job well done. His suit was trim and tidy, like the ones her husband had worn, and she felt comfortable in his care. Here was a man who took pride in his job and would do it well.

He held out a hand to her. "I think you know why I am here."

She gripped the bedcovers tight, not ready to let go just yet. "There was so much more I wanted to do. We haven't had time."

Time to eat ham and decorate eggs with Sam. Time to give Dean a proper Christmas present, possibly a new collection of lighters. Time to sit with her son.

"You've had more than you should."

She knew it was true. She had seen him out of the corner of her eye the past few weeks. A stalker at the edge of her vision, his face growing closer every day. A warning that she should hurry.

It was the only mercy he could give.

"You're not supposed to do that sort of thing." She hadn't cared to read Henry's books, but she knew a few things. One did not disrupt the natural order.

His eyebrow twitched, but his face refused to show expression. "I have a soft spot for Winchesters."

Millie leaned over and placed a soft kiss on Hartley's cheek. He stirred, but did not wake. She ran her finger along the faces in the photograph propped up by her bed. Sam. Dean. John.

 _I will see you again._

Taking one last breath, she held out her hand.

His palm wasn't cold and bony as she had expected. It was warm and firm. The irresistible pull guided her forward, and she had no fear of what came next.

She would finally be able to rest.

o0o

John looked up at the hotel. It was different from his current residence in every way. The sign out front had no broken or chipped letters. The entryway was bright and spacious. The floors were clean, gleaming in the morning light. The staff wore uniforms and were bright-eyed even at this early hour.

John ducked past the woman at the front desk before she could turn her helpful smile in his direction. There was only one person he wanted to see.

Mom.

He needed to see her again just to make sure last night had not been a dream. He had more questions, his thoughts unable to stop spinning after she had left his room. She had departed at midnight, insisting that she, at least, needed some sleep.

He had promised he would see her in the morning.

He had promised he wouldn't leave again.

The hotel room door opened to reveal Hartley, dressing gown hanging about his shoulders, eyes red and wet with tears. There was no bitterness in the look he gave John, only sorrow.

John knew that look. He had been in the business too long not to know that look.

 _No_. He had promised. He was here.

"Mom?"

"I'm sorry, John. She's gone."

o0o

"Hi Dean."

Dean was not surprised to hear his father's voice on the other end of the line. There were few enough people who had reason to call him. Besides, he heard from Dad just about every day, not matter how far apart they were geographically.

It was the tone that surprised Dean. John's voice was hoarse, as if he had a frog in his throat. If Dean didn't know better, he would say his father had been crying. He had only heard that tone from his father once before. It had been a long time ago, and Dean had only been four, but he would never forget the sound of his father's voice breaking as he cried over Mary.

John Winchester had lost something. Something important.

Dean's stomach clenched. _Sam_?

"Dad what-"

"How far are you from Albuquerque?"

Dean glanced at the nearest mile marker as if flicked past, then at the speedometer. His foot was already pressing harder on the gas. "Five hours."

"Alright. There's a diner just off the highway, big yellow sign with a giant drumstick on it. I forget the name, but you can't miss it. I'll be waiting there."

"Ok. What's the job?" Dean felt a twinge of excitement. Dad wanted to hunt with him for once. That didn't happen often these days.

"Job? I don't know yet. I'll find us something close by."

No job? "What's going on, Dad?"

"I thought we could do more good, save more people, if we split up. We have killed twice as many monsters between us this past year. But I miss my son." John cleared his throat. "I hear you met up with your grandmother."

"Yeah." Dean's mind flipped through possible scenarios. Why would seeing grandma push Dad to tears? "Yeah, we had a nice visit." Dean glanced at the stuffed turtle sitting in the passenger seat beside him. "She said she'd give me a call at Christmas."

"She won't be calling, son." John's breath was ragged, and he paused for a moment before continuing. But Dean didn't need to hear the words. He could already feel the cold hand of death creeping over him. "She's gone. The day after she found me. She passed in her sleep."

"Oh." Dean's foot eased off the gas and he let the car coast to a stop on the shoulder. For a moment the Winchester men sat in silence, three states apart but connected by their loss for words. "She was really great Dad, wasn't she?"

"Yeah. I should have given you more time with her Dean. I'm sorry."

Sorry. Dean grimaced. Sorry didn't get the time back. Sorry didn't help them move on. "When's the funeral?"

"Yesterday. I have her ashes. I thought we could take them back to Kansas, back to the farm she grew up on."

"Yes, sir." Dean shifted the car back into gear and eased onto the road. He could feel a tear slip down his cheek, but he kept his voice firm. "I'll see you in Albuquerque."

o0o

The smell of ham and sweet potatoes filled the air, mixed with the scent of bleach. Sam glared at the toilet bowl beneath his scrub brush. It was still yellowed with rust stains.

It had looked much worse when he started.

In the kitchen, Bobby sat with his feet propped up at the table, munching on the marshmallows that were supposed to go on top of the sweet potatoes. "You missed a spot."

"You can't even see it from there!" Sam shot back.

Bobby just chuckled and gestured to the vacuum. "Almost done."

The old house was cleaner than Sam had ever seen it. Bobby refused to lift a finger to help, claiming that it was Sam's family so Sam should do the work. But it had not escaped Sam's notice that the usual piles of books and paper cluttering all available surfaces had vanished before he arrived.

There was no trace of hunting in sight. To the unpracticed eye, this home belonged to a simple scrapper.

Sam put away his bathroom-scrubbing kit and unwound the cord from the vacuum. A glance at the clock said he had a good hour to go before noon. Plenty of time for Bobby to find something else for him to clean.

Barking sounded outside, Rumsfeld warning of a new visitor. Bobby's feet dropped to the floor and he shared a glance with Sam. She was early. Sam hastily draped the cord back around the vacuum and shoved the vacuum out of sight in the closet.

Bobby and Sam both let out a breath of relief when they saw a man at the door. Probably just a traveler in need of a tow. Good. She wasn't early. They still had time.

Time to get ready for Sam's first holiday ever with his grandmother.

"It's Easter. We're closed." Bobby's tone was less than polite.

The elderly man looked worn out, his face drawn and pale, his eyes glassy from too-little sleep. He wore a teed jacket and carried a small package in his arms. His eyes moved past Bobby and settled on the lanky young man behind him.

"Sam? Sam Winchester?"

Bobby turned a questioning eye to his house guest.

"Yeah." Sam swallowed hard. Something was wrong.

The man held out his hand to shake. "I'm Hartley. Millie's-your grandmother's husband."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, she said you would be here too."

Hartley nodded. "Yes. Well. I came-" He took a deep breath, drawing in the aroma of the meal in the oven. "I can see you've put together a fine dinner. I should have-I should have called ahead. I'm sorry. I didn't think. Little things had been slipping my mind lately." He blinked and dabbed at his eye.

"She's not coming?" Sam felt his entire frame droop. Did she know the bathroom wasn't ever going to get clean?

No. She hadn't seemed like the type of person to make a fuss over that.

"I'm afraid she isn't able." Hartley pulled a small card out of his pocket and handed it to Sam. There was a picture of Millie there, smiling up at him under the words In Memoriam. "She passed about a week ago."

Sam felt the room around him shrink. The idea of a grandmother had expanded his world. She had knowledge of his mother. She had stories about Dad when he was young. She represented something the Winchesters had never had on the road; happiness. It all felt so right. His days at Stanford were wonderful. He had good friends, and he had just met a girl that made his heart beat a little faster when he thought of her. It all felt right.

His grandmother was supposed to be a part of that.

And now she had vanished. Gone with a few words and a piece of paper in his hand.

"Oh." Sam stared at the card for a moment. He barely felt Bobby pat him on the shoulder.

"You alright, son?"

Sam looked up, blinking. "Alright? Yeah. I just-I was really looking forward to seeing her again."

Hartley smiled. "She was looking forward to seeing you too. She was so happy she had finally found you. I brought this." He held out an old shoe box. "It's just some old photos, but I thought-"

"We've got a nice big dinner and a place already set for you." Bobby opened his arms in a welcoming gesture. "I for one would love to see some embarrassing pictures of John Winchester as a kid."

Sam snorted. Dad at age five, playing with the old green soldiers that had kept his sons company in the backseat of the Impala. It didn't seem possible. But he nodded. "Yeah, that sounds good."

Hartley stepped across the threshold and Bobby closed the door. Sam stared at the photograph one last time before tucking the card into his pocket.

Millie Winchester. She had searched for him for twenty years. Hartley lifted the lid from the shoebox and Sam leaned forward, eager to learn more about the woman who had been his grandmother.

 **Thank you so much for reading. Please review!**


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